


Politic-geist

by TheAnnoyingAlien



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Ghost Presidents, Talking To Dead People, just a fun little original story about a teenage girl hanging out with some old dead dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:39:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAnnoyingAlien/pseuds/TheAnnoyingAlien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An original story I wrote in the middle of my senior year of high school but never bothered to post until now. It's January 2017, and the newly inaugurated president and her family have gotten situated in their new home. That evening the First Daughter accidentally discovers that she possesses an unusual gift, and that she and her family are not the only ones residing in the White House...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Politic-geist

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original story that I started writing back when I was still in high school. I've recently started college, but I had this sitting around and decided I might as well share it with everyone. I don't think it's my best work, but I thought it was a cute nice little story anyways and wanted to post it. But yeah... here it is.

It was a snowy January evening in Washington, D.C., and the newly-inaugurated President Solorio and her First Gentleman had gone to bed hours ago, tired out from the festivities of the inaugural ball.

The First Daughter, however, was still wide awake. She stood out on the Truman Balcony, wearing a heavy coat over the formal dress she hadn't bothered to change out of as her wavy raven bangs blew about in the frigid winter air. She had pulled up a chair and was seated with a sketchpad on her knee and a pencil in her hand, drawing the view from the balcony. She’d finished detailing the Washington Monument, standing tall and proud in the distance, and had begun to work on the fountain on the White House's south lawn. The teenager set her pencil down and flipped through the pad, letting a smile cross her face as she stared at the pages. Each page contained other rooms and areas of the White House drawn with stunning vividness, and there were even a few portraits of important government officials and historical figures thrown in as well. 

The First Daughter loved history, and it, along with drawing, had long been a passion of hers. She found solace in studying the past and capturing it in her art, and if there was one thing she really needed right now it was solace. Ever since her mother had begun her campaign the poor girl had been feeling stressed and on edge. President Solorio was a smart, hardworking, ambitious woman, a woman who cared about human rights and equality, a woman who wanted to and most definitely would change the world, a woman who had the strength and passion to forge on through her grueling presidential campaign and the mayhem of the election in order to achieve that goal. Solorio wished to be remembered as more than just the first female president; she wanted to make a real difference, to do some good by her country.

Her daughter on the other hand really didn't want to be remembered for anything. Unlike her charming, charismatic mother, she was shy, painfully shy, and felt uneasy under the public's gaze. She didn't like to talk, and even if she did it wasn't like anyone would care to listen to her. She didn't feel like she was very interesting or special; she was nothing more than the meek, ordinary child of an extraordinary politician and her successful businessman husband.

The First Daughter sighed wistfully, flipping back to her half-finished sketch of the lawn and staring down at it. At least being the daughter of a president allowed her the opportunity to access so much of the nation's history, and to draw it in rich detail. The girl rubbed her nose, which was quickly turning red in the cold, and decided that she should go to bed. She tucked her sketchpad securely under her arm and headed inside, quietly closing the doors behind her.

As she meandered through the halls, the teen admired the ornate décor, making a mental note of possible subjects to consider for her next sketch. Suddenly, she heard something. She froze mid-step, abandoning her thoughts of sketching, and listened carefully. Soft, faint piano notes could be heard drifting through the halls.   
"Mom and Dad don't play the piano..." The girl thought to herself. Maybe her parents were listening to some music, but why would they be up this late? Perhaps it was one of the Secret Service agents messing around. Perhaps not. Feeling curious and a little afraid, she decided to investigate. She followed the noise down the corridor and into the second floor Central Hall, where she was met with an alarming sight. Sitting there at the black Baldwin grand piano was a man whom she had only seen in photos, a man who shouldn't have been alive.

The man was clad in a 1940s styled suit, had gray hair and blue eyes, and sported a pair of round glasses that were perched on the bridge of his nose. It was Harry S. Truman, smiling broadly and tapping out a beautiful melody on the gleaming ivory keys. The First Daughter was stunned. She blinked a few times and rubbed her eyes, thinking that the former president was just a figment of her sleep-deprived imagination, but her efforts did nothing to make him vanish. Truman was still there, real and alive as daylight. Well, almost.

She noted that while he looked very much the same as he had during his presidency, there were a few peculiarities about his appearance. He was enveloped in a faint pale glow, and seemed almost translucent. The girl's heart rate quickened, and she swallowed nervously. Should she say something to him? He wasn't supposed to be here and she felt like she should report this incident to the Secret Service, but Truman didn't seem to be causing any trouble, and she feared the agents would think she were crazy if she claimed to have seen him.

Instead, she opted to stand there quietly, watching and listening as the president played a pretty tune. She smiled; she had no idea what the long-dead Truman was doing here, but he sure knew how to play the piano!

Suddenly, dull glowing circles began to form on the ceiling, and the First Daughter watched in shocked silence as several more dead presidents began to float down from them. She recognized the handsome face of John F. Kennedy, as well as Andrew Jackson with his gaunt appearance and wild hair. Abraham Lincoln descended next, his tall form, sharp features, and bushy beard unmistakable in the soft glow emanating from his body, and the portly and powerful Theodore Roosevelt soon followed him. More and more presidents came down, and the girl was completely awed by the spectacle. What were all of these supposedly deceased men doing here?

She watched as a few of the presidents landed in chairs, while others touched down softly on their feet. They seemed to be gathering to listen to Harry play. Several more presidents began drifting in through the walls; and the girl felt something collide with her from behind, knocking her down with an audible thud.  
Harry hit a sour note and ceased playing. He and the rest of the presidents looked over in her direction, drawn to her by the noise. The girl grew panicked when she realized that she’d caught their attention, though she tried not to let her anxiety show. She happened to glance up and spied another man hovering above her, a tall, well-built man with blue eyes and thinning blond hair. She recognized him as yet another president, Gerald Ford.

"Jerry!" Richard Nixon exclaimed, also taking notice of the other president, "Did you knock down another vase?"

"No," Lyndon Johnson replied, floating out of the chair he had parked himself in, "The vases are fine, but he’s gone and knocked over the First Daughter." 

"Oh no! I'm so sorry, Miss!" Ford apologized hastily. "I know what the media's said about me, but I swear I'm not a klutz! Here, let me help you up." He held out his hand, offering it to her.

"There's no point in doing that” Franklin Roosevelt sighed, “She might be able to feel you, but she can't see or hear you."

"What do you mean? I can see and hear all of you; why wouldn’t I be able to?" The girl asked, grabbing Ford’s hand in her own and rising from the floor. His hand was cold, so very cold, and she could see her own hand visible underneath it due to its translucent quality. The presidents gasped, their eyes growing wide as the room went totally silent. Unnerved by this, the girl looked to Gerald Ford. He let go of her hand, looking equally as stunned as the other men. She didn’t know what to do; were they upset? Had she said something wrong? The presidents suddenly erupted into cheers and applause, which only confused her further.

"W-what's going on?" She inquired, her voice trembling a bit. Thomas Jefferson floated down before her.

"My dear girl," he said, cupping her face in his hands, "You have a very unusual gift!"

"Unusual gift?" She repeated, pulling away from him. "What gift could I possibly have?"

"You're the first person to live here who is able to see, hear, and communicate with ghosts!" Teddy Roosevelt announced.

"Ghosts? Ghosts aren't real!" The girl scoffed.

"Well, you're looking at thirty-eight of them!" Said James Polk. 

"What?” The girl exclaimed. “All of you are ghosts?"

"Indeed we are. Spirits, apparitions, entities, poltergeists-or, I guess in our case, you could call us politic-geists!" William Howard Taft smirked. The girl gave a nervous chuckle as the other ghost presidents groaned and rolled their eyes at his bad pun.

"Hilarious." John F. Kennedy muttered dryly. "So, what's your name, Miss?"

"My name's Luna.” The girl introduced herself. “Luna Solorio."

"Lunar," Kennedy repeated in his distinct New England accent, "That's a lovely name!"

“Oh, well, thank you,” Luna replied, feeling flattered by the compliment, “So, um… I have to ask, why is it so unusual that I can see all of you? Can’t other people see you too?" 

"The ability to detect ghosts is an inherited trait, but it's recessive and is seldom expressed in the human population." Woodrow Wilson explained. "Miss Luna, you're very special to possess such a rare ability!" Luna smiled sheepishly, clutching her sketchpad against her chest. She couldn’t believe it; she’d gone so long thinking there was nothing noteworthy about herself, and now, purely by chance, she’d learned of this incredible gift of hers. It was exciting.

"This is incredible... I can talk to ghosts!” She giggled giddily, “Just think of the history I could learn from you! I could draw you in such detail!"

"Oh! Do you like to draw?" Asked Dwight Eisenhower. "Is that what you've got in there? Drawings?" He gestured to her sketchpad, and Luna nodded.

"Oh, yes," She told him, “I love to draw. I’ve got a lot of drawings in here.”

"I’d like to see them," Said Eisenhower, “May I?”

"Oh, sure, but they're not very good..." Luna said shyly, handing her sketchpad to the ghost. "I draw mostly as a hobby... these are just some sketches of people and things in the D.C. area..."

"These are beautiful!" Eisenhower remarked as he flipped through her various drawings. "The perspective and proportions are perfect, the shading is so well done-you've got real talent, Miss Solorio!"

"You said you were interested in drawing us? Could you draw some of us right now?" Asked James Garfield. 

"Draw me like one of your French girls." Franklin Roosevelt requested, sprawling himself out on one of the couches in a suggestive pose and earning an amused chuckle from everyone in the room.

"Sure, I can do that." Luna agreed. She sat down, flipped open her sketchpad, and began sketching the president. As she worked, dragging the pencil deftly against the crisp sketch paper, she started chatting up the ghosts, asking them questions and listening as they told her about their lives. They were more than happy to have someone to talk to, and they showed off for her, presenting their many talents: Garfield could write in Latin and Greek at the same time using both hands, Eisenhower was also quite good at drawing and penciled a portrait of her, and Truman played some more music on the piano. They also asked her what her own life was like, and while she was a little reserved at first, she gradually opened up to them.

Luna told them how she was the only child of a Massachusetts senator and Spanish businessman; her mother was the nationally famous politician Cynthia Beckham Solorio, known as Cindy for short, and her father was Sebastian Solorio, who owned and oversaw several major companies. Luna was born in Boston during her mother’s first senatorial term and lived and grew up there. Her mother eventually decided to run for president in 2016 and won the nomination for the Democratic Party, choosing Mrs. Kitty Sinclair, the governor of Georgia who was slightly more centrist than her, to be her running mate and balance the ticket. The two easily beat their Republican opponents, and now here they were, the forty fifth president and forty eighth vice president of the United States of America. Surprisingly, Luna noticed that none of the president ghosts seemed upset about her mother's position or gender.

She knew her history, knew of the prejudice that many of these men possessed, and she had expected quite a few of them to be off put by her mother's liberal political views and the fact that there was now a woman president (as well as a woman vice president) in office, but they were all unexpectedly content. She wanted to know why, but she decided not to ask at the moment. It was getting late and Luna didn’t feel up to getting into heated political discourse with a bunch of dead presidents, but she made a mental note to inquire about it at a later date. She found herself growing increasingly tired, fighting to keep her eyes open as she sketched John Tyler and listened to William Henry Harrison's lengthy recitation of his inaugural address. Harrison noticed that she was getting sleepy and paused.

"Am I boring you with my address?" He asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"Oh no, no! Not at all!" Luna assured him. "It's just that it's really late and I've had a long day, I'm kind of tired.”

"Ah yes, you need your sleep after all.” Thomas Jefferson noted. “My apologies; we often forget about that since ghosts have no need for sleep."

"We may not need it, but sleep is still nice.” Yawned John Adams, leaning on Jefferson's shoulder and using it as a makeshift pillow. Luna got up from her seat, gave each President she had drawn their portraits, and closed her sketchpad. 

"I'll draw the rest of you tomorrow." She promised. “I’m going to walk back to my room now.”

“Let LBJ and I escort you there,” Abraham Lincoln offered. He and Lyndon Johnson floated down at her sides, kneeling slightly so they were closer to her height.

“Put your arms around our shoulders.” Johnson requested. She did, draping one arm across either man’s shoulders. The two presidents floated up, hovering a few inches off the floor, and drifted out of the room carrying her. They let her down outside of her bedroom door; as her feet made contact with the floor she turned around and smiled.

“Thanks for the lift. See you tomorrow.” The two smiled back, Lincoln tipping his stovepipe hat to her while Johnson did the same with his stetson.

"Good night!" They replied in unison before floating away. Luna headed into her bedroom and taped the portrait Eisenhower had done of her up on the wall. She then sat on the edge of her bed with her sketchpad in her lap, staring down at it as a small grin crossed her face. She could see ghosts, and in just one night she had made thirty eight wonderful new friends. Perhaps she was more extraordinary than she thought.

The End


End file.
